Doll
by Khrysalis
Summary: Someone was fascinated with Gein's art. Enough to uncover its secrets. Enough to duplicate it. Enough to strive to surpass it. And all masterpieces need beholders...


Author's note:

_October seems a good month to begin a horror story. Part of this first appeared in a forum--at my cousin's impish prompting--several months ago, and I haven't been working on it much lately, though I've drawn quite a few pictures with enthusiasm. After all, a theme is "art"._

_This won't be a terribly long story. I _think _there will be nine more (much longer) chapters. But don't worry, plenty will happen!_

_Short enough here this time not to burden my beta, so all mistakes are again my fault alone. She'll certainly be getting the ones after, though._

_Enjoy…should that be the right word.

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Disclaimer: _Rurouni Kenshin _is the property of creator Nobuhiro Watsuki, Shueisha, Shonen Jump, and Sony Entertainment. Intended for entertainment, and no profit is made from it.

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1  
The Subject and the Witness

Aoshi looked on the map, feeling irritation creep peripherally over his concentration. Not for the first time, he wondered if this wasn't some sort of wild goose chase…

…and yet the letter, the self-absorbed narrative full of elaborate diagrams and impatient ink spots was too real to ignore. A lot of this insane person's personality had been poured into the wrinkled pages and impassioned brush-strokes. Aoshi was already in Kyoto. Aoshi could check the area the map indicated in the mountain to make sure all was well, or not, than he could by traveling or sending a message to Tokyo to inquire.

He moved soundlessly. It was a fairly rocky area, pockmarked with grooves as though it had been cleared of trees and the stumps removed, but nobody had bothered to fill in the holes with earth.

He didn't like this. With every step he took following the map's directions, he was getting a worse and worse feeling. Just by looking at the surroundings…

"True art should not be lost," the letter had said. "Between you and Himura Battousai, not only was a great artist destroyed, but also his masterpieces. Amends must be made. One of you shall be the new subject. The other shall bear witness. The merging of physical and functional beauty, in the form of one who had overcome both.

"In your city, there is a mountain. On that mountain, there lives a master. Seek out the mountain, and under the master's nose you will find a new version of his apprentice, perfected and adjusted in the beauty of true art!"

It was not at all difficult to guess what master and what apprentice the madman referred to, or the mountain of Hiko Seijuro's residence. A sour joke, that seemed, if Kenshin had indeed been harmed in some way, for it to be in no great distance from the home of his own master.

One might have hoped Gein's madness and his "art" would have gone to the grave with the old man. It would seem instead that he had at least one…admirer.

Before he had even left the inn, he had considered going directly to Hiko with the sheaves of papers, since it seemed he was to be involved in this. _If_ there was truly anything in which to be involved. But, perhaps either by fate or some scheme of the madman's the supposed located of the "adjusted apprentice" was further down the mountain from where Hiko lived. Aoshi would have to pass it to get there.

He didn't like what he was feeling. Under a completely ignored layer of apprehension was an even thinner layer of something he could only label as guilt. The letter made him feel that if harm had come to Kenshin, it would be his fault.

No, he didn't like the feeling at all. Someone may very well have to pay for this.

The map had indicted he was in the right place, and the instructions carefully scrawled in the margins ended. At first, Aoshi didn't see anything but a rather large boulder rooted more deeply into the earth than the trees surrounding him. But--the stone was very, very clean.

His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. The stone looked as if it had been scrubbed and polished. It stood in unnatural, hand-smoothed shine. To someone not being especially observant, this could be overlooked. For Aoshi, it stood out sharply as a marker.

He walked slowly around the colossal rock, his insides growing still and steely as he began to sense life somewhere just around…

He came completely around to the other side of the rock and stopped short. It felt, for a moment, that everything stopped, including the blood in his veins.

In his life, he hadn't seen very many people with hair quite the color of Kenshin's, and what few he had seen who had similar coloring still didn't match his small, slim body type…

But there was a small, red-headed man chained to the rock. He lay slack against it, heavy but loose chains connected from unmoving wrists and ankles. Head bowed, unbound hair falling over his shoulders. His body…

It was bare as the day he was born, but this was barely a minor distraction, a poor detail next the gut-wrenching sight of some unimaginable atrocity performed on it. Almost against his will, Aoshi moved closer, seeing the horrific patchwork. It looked as if whole areas of skin and been removed and then different skin sewn into their place with precise but thick silver stitches. They didn't match well, the mix of pigments standing out almost more than the scores of stitching racing against each other across his ribs, over his stomach, the curves of his arms, over his chest, in imperfect circles over his legs and across the top of his left foot.

The stitching looked skillful, but as Aoshi knelt beside him, he saw that care had been neglected, areas of the patches raw and angry with infection, some greenish with seeping pus.

A word that was somehow both weak and blasphemous fell from Aoshi's lips, unheard by his own ears as he reached out with one hand--astonishingly steady yet--to press away strands of red from the downcast face.

The head moved toward him on its own, and with involuntary sharpness, Aoshi drew his hand back.

What in hell had they _done_?

It looked like the skin of his left cheek--the part with the scar--had been cut away and replaced with a new, unblemished area…but the new skin was much darker than his natural complexion, and the suture was hundreds of times worse than the cross-shaped scar had ever, ever been. Dulled eyes with far too much red in them looked back at him. Eyes exhausted of strong, harsh emotions like pain and terror. Spent and void.

Aoshi opened his mouth. Shut it. Took three deep, calming breaths. "Kenshin?"

No response but a slow blink. It was enough. He was hearing.

Hearing maybe, but understanding…?

Aoshi hesitated only a moment before he shrugged off his jacket, quickly covered the other man. "I'm…going to take you to--"

Well, the closest place was Hiko Seijuro's home. It seemed logical to take him there than try to carry him all the way back to Aoi-ya.

Convenient, even. Another part of the plan by the sick bastard who had done this? Not much choice. Kenshin needed help. He needed to get out of the autumn air and he needed medical care.

Aoshi moved slowly, pulling a kodachi free to break the chains. Paused again when he looked on some slightly torn stitches on the back of Kenshin's right hand, already clotted.

Whose twisted mind thought this art?

And more importantly, how could this damage be undone?

* * *

An unusually chill wind blew over the dojo. The voice of a small boy was carried on the wind from the porch, and a young mother's answer, cheerful and homey.

Strangely, it didn't warm his heart, this time. The wind, icy and bringing leaves with it, blew chin-length strands of red hair across his cheeks. One cheek, where a fading cross-shaped scar remained. His large violet eyes moved over the stars, the first few appearing in the sky, as if they might either assuage the deep feeling of unease or tell him what it was about.

The voice of his wife rang out again, warm and inviting. The temptation to shake off the chills and go back into the warmth of his home and family was strong, but he was far too old not to know better than to ignore his feelings. Something was happening. Or would happen.

He turned away from the stars and the growing shadows, just as the wind changed directions and blew into the loose sleeves of his gi. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as was the sudden, painful itch at his hands and fingertips. He held his right one up in the fading light, noting the dry and reddened appearance where he had been scratching at it without realizing it.

He frowned deeply, and nearly jumped when he felt a pair of slender arms come around his chest. He looked over his shoulder at his wife, feeling the cold tightness in his stomach loosen and warm a little at her touch.

He brought his hands up to cover hers. They still itched a little, and made a mental note to get into the ointment when he went back inside.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he said softly.

And there wasn't. Not that he knew of.


End file.
